


carve your name into my bedpost

by fairytelling



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Social Media, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-25 07:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytelling/pseuds/fairytelling
Summary: Only idiots fall in love with their co-stars, so it’s a good thing you and Chris are pretty stupid.





	1. pining and anticipation

**_Dating rumours after co-stars Chris Evans and Y/F/N Y/L/N can’t seem to keep their hands off of each other!_ **

_Avengers’ star, Chris Evans, appears to have bounced back onto the dating scene, after being spotted out and about with co-star, Y/F/N Y/L/N._

_The pair are starring in Sean Casey’s Why Things Burn, a romantic psychological thriller, which is due to be released in theatres countywide next week. The alleged couple is suspected of mixing business and pleasure after being spotted eating in a restaurant in Santa Monica. According to TMZ and sources close to the couple, they were inseparable and all over each other at Robert Downey Jr’s birthday party two weeks ago._

***

It’s automatic.

“You’ve got a little bit of—.” Before you’ve even finished speaking, your index finger swipes the chocolate crumbs from the corner of Chris’ mouth. He tilts his head to you, _kills you with that sideways smoulder_ , and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Chocolate brownie?” he asks, pinching your index finger, bringing it closer to his mouth, before licking it. His eyebrows furrow for a moment and he pokes his tongue into his cheek, pensively. “Mhmm, definitely chocolate brownie.”

You snatch your finger back.

“You’re gross. Also, case in point, this is what all these interviewers keep asking about.” Your eyes narrow as you scold him.

You’d hate Chris Evans, if it was humanly possible. How one person can make you adore them and mess with your head at the same time is an impressive feat. This press junket has been going on for a few hours and time feels suspended as you’re stuck in this hotel meeting room without windows. A revolving door of journalists come in and out. He’s been trying to slip in innuendos and inside jokes to make it a bit easier. You’ve been laughing so hard, your ribs feel bruised.

Chris leans in, radiating warmth. You repeat your mantra for the last few months: _if you fly too close to the sun, you burn_. This attraction is like an itch, like a pimple you want to pop. You’re not sure you really want to deal with the repercussions, but the temptation keeps growing.

“One, it was only like three people—.”

“—one of which was your dad and, oh, I don’t know an entire BuzzFeed article,” you correct, picking up a bottle of water from the snack table.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Chris pauses and glowers at you, “it was only, like, two people at best—.”

“We’ve gone from three to two. Something’s not adding up.”

In a second, he spins you around and wraps a hand around your neck. His fingertips brush against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

_Shit._

“Y/N, _shut up.”_

“Strangling? That’s pretty kinky, Chris.”

He doesn’t respond, but you swear to god, you hear a quiet growl.

“You’re really going to strangle me now, Chris? Someone could catch us at any moment.”

He lets go, his hands fly off you like they’ve been scalded. You immediately take a step back, anything to re-establish these blurred boundaries. The touching started off purely professional, honest, you swear to God. During filming, your director had wanted the genuine intimacy of a couple that had been together for years. He’d suggested all sorts of weird and wonderful activities to make the pair of you more comfortable with one another. How - you’re not sure, but he’s succeeded in making the two of you _too comfortable._

There aren’t any boundaries between the two of you.

At least, not anymore.

You thought that maybe after filming you would go your separate ways, but since you’ve been back in LA, you’re inseparable.

“God, we’re a wreck,” he says, voice low and scratchy. Chris’ voice, the only way you can describe it, is gravel and molten rock.

“Right, we’re _actors_ —, _”_ you start, but pause as your fingers twitch as you realise that you were just about to poke him. “Ignore me, we’re fucked. Just try to...keep your hands to yourself.”

The co-ordinator comes back into the room and you have to resist the urge to break out into giggles. You feel like a child, smug with yourself, having just got away with a crime. Chris quirks an eyebrow, noticing that you’re struggling to hold down your laughter. You settle back into your seat, squirm under the lights and try not to dwell on the fluttering sensation in your chest.

***

Hands down, movie premiers might actually be the worst part of being a successful movie star. The screaming from fans, the hollering from photographers, the click and flash of cameras - all make the perfect backdrop to a mental breakdown. After hours of make-up, you’re squeezed into a tight outfit - and dropped off on the carpet. You’re family and friends are accompanying you, but for the most part, you’re alone for this one.

It’s not long before the feeling creeps in. You’re drowning in a sea of light and a cacophony of sounds. And out of the blue, comes life support. Chris latches your hand, holds it in his. With the pad of his thumb, he rubs tiny circles on the back of your hand. You feel your heart pang, an electric tingle in your chest sparks.

_Honestly, fuck feelings._

He leans into your ear. “Just smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave.”

You giggle at the reference, feeling off-kilter still, but close enough to centre to bullshit your way through. The muscles of your cheek twitch and ache by the time you make it into the theatre.

You don’t end up watching the movie. The sound of your own voice is like chalk on a blackboard. Instead, you watch Chris. He smiles throughout; his eyes wide as he watches intently. Every so often, he leans down to your ear to compliment your acting.

During the sex scene, you cover your eyes. Filming it had been nothing but giggles, but on screen, _holy hell_. It’s then, in the midst of your dying embarrassment, that you feel something light tap your cheek.

He’s throwing popcorn at you. “Watch it.”

“I’ve already got second-hand embarrassment. Do you want me to die?” You whisper.

The director shoots a bemused glance in your direction.

“I already did. La petite mort,” he replied. The combination of his Boston accent and his atrocious French one make you nearly cackle out loud.

“I don’t even like you, man,” you mumble, nestling back into plush theatre seats, hoping to be devoured.

***

You never intended on getting drunk. But after doing shots with half the crew, you’re not exactly sober. After flittering and fluttering amongst your family, friends and crew, you end up sitting alone. The party is abuzz, the music and the base loud. There’s an open bar and you watch as your brother hopelessly flirts with some guy at the bar. Your mother had placed a cup of water in your hand, laughed, before kissing goodnight. And that’s where Chris finds you.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he says, taking a seat next to you.

“My mom basically told me I needed to sober up.” You hold up the glass of water. Off balance, some splashes out. “Case in point.”

He laughs, that whole body laugh, hands over his chest, head tilted back.

“So, what brings you to my corner?” you ask, before taking another sip.

“I think I need a breather.”

“Do you want to go?” you ask, standing up. The itchy wanderlust phase of being drunk seeps in.

“We can’t leave,” Chris says. You pout, looking down on him. Within seconds, his resolve crumbles, a smile appears as he takes your hand. Your fingers interlock as you pretend to pull him up.

“I was worried you’ve lost your sense of adventure.”

You sneak out with surprising ease, careful not to get caught by any more paparazzi. After a brief argument, you settle on telling the taxi driver to take you to your place as opposed to Chris’.

“God, I hate these shoes,” you say, fumbling to unlace the death-traps your stylist called shoes.

“Do you need a hand?” Chris asks.

Biting your bottom lip, you nod and bring your feet up to Chris lap. The ride is quiet, surprisingly so. You can’t find anything to say. With Chris’ right hand resting on your thigh, you’re not sure you’re breathing.

He’s the gasoline and you’re the spark. God, you’ve never wanted to burn anything more in your life. So, here you are, in the back of a taxi, near silence except the low sound of the static and the radio playing 80s hits. And the words are on the tip of your tongue, _I think I love you._

The car arrives with a screeching halt. Chris manages to pay, before you can even rifle through your bag.

“C’mon,” he says, beckoning you. You toss your shoes at him, and clamber out.

“Shit, the pavement is not comfortable to walk on.”

Chris crouches down. “Hop on.”

You laugh, climbing onto his back. There was a long scene in the film where Chris has to piggyback you around. Unfortunately for him, the director made you do nearly twenty takes.

“I thought you’d sworn off ever carrying me again,” you say.

“I’m only carrying you to remind you that I carried this movie on my back,” he says.

You pinch his nose. “You’re a little bitch, you know that.”

“You’re murderous,” he responds when you let go of his nose.

“You tried to strangle me the other day,” you point out.

“I’ll drop you now,” Chris threatens, but you laugh. After some ungraceful manoeuvring and fast reflexes from Chris, who saves you from a tumble onto your driveway, you get down. It’s another struggle to find your keys and open your house.

“Are you going to be able to make it in alright?” Chris asks.

You shake your head and tug him into the house. Turns out you’re stronger than you realise, or it’s that Chris doesn’t put up any resistance.

“You have to come in,” you say, inhibitions gone. Fluttering your eyelashes at him, you add, “aren’t you going to hold my hair back when I puke?”

“Absolutely not.” He folds his arms across his chest.

You laugh, knowing that he would. The thing about your relationship, however uncharted the territory, you know a few things; (1) this attraction might just kill you, (2) he feels it too and (3) you don’t know how to say no to each other.

“C’mon,” you say, leading him deeper into the house. For all the time, you’ve spent together, Chris has never been into your bedroom. You beckon him in and immediately grab yourself an oversized shirt. Turning your back to him, you negotiate your way out of your dress, slide the t-shirt on and slip off your bra.

“How do you do that?” he asks, already crashed in your bed. His shoes littered at the end of the bed.

You pout. “I know you wanted to see some skin.”

“Very funny, Y/N.”

You join him on the bed, settling under the covers. And it’s not like you haven’t shared a bed in a hotel room, but there’s something different about the two of you in your bedroom. Hotel rooms are empty, liminal spaces that have a weird haunted quality. This is your room, this is your real life. This is what you want to have every night.

“Your room is spinning,” Chris slurs, looking at the ceiling. “And it’s _fuckin’_ hot under these covers.”

Without missing a beat, he pulls his shirt off. By now, you hoped that the sight of Chris shirtless doesn’t make you squirm. Of course, it does.

“Do you want to watch something?” you ask.

“Nah, I just want a cuddle.”

“ _Chris_ —.”

“Just c’mere.” His arms are open, and you already know that you slot in, just right. And how can you say no to those puppy dog eyes?

You sigh.

“C’mere,” he repeats, this time pulling you in, settling his face into the curve of your neck.

“You’re a menace—.”

“Shut up.” His lips brush against the nape of your neck, shushing you. “I’m tryna sleep.”

***

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the audience, you know my first guests as Captain America and Jean Grey, here to talk about their latest film, Why Things Burn — it’s Chris Evans and Y/N Y/L/N.”

You wave as you come out, giving the audience a bright smile and another wave to the band. You hug and kiss Jimmy on the cheek first, before taking the seat closest to the desk.

“It’s so great to have you two here,” Jimmy shouts over the audience. “And just to say, I saw the movie, it was fantastic. Absolutely mind blowing”

“You liked it? Not to toot our own horn, but I think it’s pretty good,” you respond.

“Yeah - it was great. I don’t want to ruin it for the audience, but you’re on the edge of your seat for the whole movie. And it’s got like 98% on Rotten Tomatoes and there’s a lot of Oscar buzz—.” Kimmel says, no doubt spewing his rehearsed praise.

“We don’t talk about that,” Chris interjects.

“We don’t want to jinx it. Let the popcorn gods decide.” You squeeze your eyes shut and make a prayer sign for a second. The audience chuckles.

“So, you guys spent a lot of time filming, but I’ve heard a rumour…”

“Oh no,” you intone.

“That you two almost got fired—.”

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, this has been blown _waaaay_ out of proportions. We didn’t almost get fired, we were one month into filming. But we did get in trouble—.”

“Wait, wait a minute, what did you guys actually do?” Jimmy asks.

You sigh, dramatically. “So it’s Superbowl time and it’s obviously the Eagles and the Patriots.”

The crowd cheers at the sound of both teams.

“For the sake of context, in the words of the great Fresh Prince, I’m west Philadelphia, born and raised and this meatball is from Bolton. And let’s just say that some of us are sore losers—.”

“And some of us are not graceful winners. For about a week after — we barely spoke.”

“That’s only because Chris was besides himself with grief.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He pokes you.

“I think you—.” And you poke him back.

“It looks like I might have started it again,” Jimmy says, halting your argument in its tracks.

“As I was saying,” you say, nudging him within your elbow. “The crew staged an intervention. They had a special woman from HR, whose a specialist at diffusing tension between clashing actors, flown in to moderate.”

Chris takes over for you. “So, get this, when we tell her what’s wrong — she’s so confused that she breaks out into this uncontrollable laughter for like ten minutes and then she starts crying laughing—.”

“So you guys broke the professional tension diffuser?”

“Nope, he did.” You point a finger at Chris.

“As you can see, our relationship still has some kinks, that we’re trying to work out,” Chris retorts.

“Oh my god,” you say, chuckling, slapping his thigh. “You’re an actual meatball.”

“And you both claim to be single?” Jimmy asks.

“Yes,” Chris says slowly.

While you respond, “yeah.”

“Are you sure, you don’t sound so sure?” Jimmy asks again, as the crowd laughs and whistles.

“We’re sure,” you both chime back, realising your mistake.

But the truth is, you don’t know. You’re somewhere between friendship and being an old married couple.

“That sounds awfully rehearsed. Well, while you two work out those kinks - let’s watch a clip from your new movie, Why Things Burn.”

***

**winnie (fan acc)** @captainsbuckysam: just watched @chrisevans and @yourtwittername on kimmel and I s2g they’re actually a couple

 **Chris Evan’s GF** @lookingforcevans: @chrisevans is definitely dating youknowwho, I’m gonna combust

 **Steve Rodgers** @christopherdoritos: I wonder if @chrisevans ever wants to cut his ears off, because @yourtwittername has the most annoying voice ever omg

 **fatima** @capsbabe: pls let @yourtwittername and @chrisevans be dating

 **George (fan account)** @jbuckymcu: my faith in love and romance will be restored if @chrisevans and @yourtwittername are together

 **valkyrie** @thirstaidkitz: @chrisevans really out here dating all his co-stars, can the man even act?

 **amanda** @aaaaamanda: @yourtwittername is such an ugly fame whore, chris deserves sooo much better

***

The two of you have breakfast in your hotel room, overlooking the view of downtown. Dust motes float around the room and it feels like magic as the glow of the rising sun fills the room. The view is beautiful; sprawling buildings, cars lining the streets like ants and _Chris_. You have a long day of press ahead of you, but this is a nice moment; just the two of you having a quiet breakfast.

His lips twitch and a smile forms.

“You look like you’re in deep thought.”

“Just enjoying the calm before the storm,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee.

***

Doing the press rounds is exhausting. Travelling around the world and back - without enough time to adjust, both of you are zombies. This morning, you’re on the Ellen Show.

You have the usual introduction and benign chat about the movie — she talks about its brilliance and the fact it’s gaining award show buzz.

“So, is it true that you both tap dance?” Ellen asks.

“Oh, I think I know where you’re going with this...” You say, groaning slightly. You’re sitting closest to Ellen and you’re acutely aware of Chris’ arm around the back of the sofa. Sitting with perfect posture, you make sure not to sink into his arms.

Chris fills in with the rest of the story. “Before the film, both of us could tap dance, but we’ve never done anything too advanced. Our director. He’s a great, world-class director. But he’s famous for making actors do all sorts of weird acting exercises.”

“I think he also just wanted to torture us a little bit,” you chime in.

“So, after the read through, he takes us to a dance studio and we thought it was going to be some weird trust fall exercises. Instead, he’s hired us a tap dance instructor and he wanted us to learn an extremely tricky routine.”

“So, over the course of the movie — the two of you became quite good—.”

“Adequate, we became adequate.”

“Well, we’d like to see adequate, wouldn’t we?” Ellen plays to her audience, who respond immediately.

“Oh no, we couldn’t possibly. We don’t even have our tap shoes,” you say lamely.

“No worries — we had your assistants bring us your tap shoes,” Ellen says and the crowd begins hollering.

You both change your shoes quickly and move over to the stage.

“Alright then, it doesn’t seem like we have a choice,” Chris says, stretching out his legs.

“This could go disastrously wrong. There’s a good chance I end up on the floor,” you warn, holding up your hands.

The music begins to play and you start the routine. You’ve done this hundreds of times. In between takes, the two of you would dance in between the takes of stressful scenes. Dancing with Chris is a lot like most of the time you spend with him, you’re always on the same wavelength, the same rhythm (off-beat), but in sync with one another.

After a minute or so, the two of you stumble and begin to laugh. The audience cheers, standing to their feet.

“Oh my goodness, you two are just amazing,” Ellen says, before cutting to break.

***

**Y/F/N Y/L/N** @yourtwittername: the tap dancing routine is from the movie, Top Hat for all those wondering! thanks for having us @TheEllenShow

 **ames (fan acc)** @stevierodgers: chris evans can tap dance over my corpse

 **Leila Munro** @leilamunro: UM EXCUSE ME why did I not know that @chrisevans could tap dance?

 **fandom fanatic** @jeansgreys: @chrisevans @yourtwittername killing the fred astaire and ginger rogers routine was amazing

***

Unable to sleep, you’re curled up in a cocoon of blankets, watching Rick and Morty in bed. It’s, then, when you’re deeply engrossed in the shenanigans of the show — that you hear a knock on your hotel room door.

You immediately smile, because you recognise the rhythm. Embarrassingly, you leap out of bed and open the door.

“I can’t sleep either,” he says and then offers an explanation. “I saw your tweet.”

“Stalker.” You stick out your tongue.

Wordlessly, Chris shuffles into bed with you. Your breath hitches as he settles under the covers with you. Your bare legs brush against his.

“You’re such a Netflix traitor! I thought we were rewatching together,” he says, pulling your laptop between the two of you.

You shrug. “You snooze, you lose.”

You watch an episode in relative silence; but as the next one starts, Chris slides the laptop out of sight. Turned towards each other, half of his face, which is illuminated by the city lights and the other is smooshed against the pillow.

“It’s gonna be weird when we don’t spend as much time with each other,” he says.

“I’m sure I’ll have an equally inappropriate relationship with my next co-star,” you say, breaking out into giggles. “I wonder if Robert Pattinson sparkles in real life.”

“I thought I was special.”

“Don’t fish for compliments.” Your feet kick his shin.

“Don’t be mean,” he says, kicking you back.

“Really, Evans? A game of footsie, that’s so elementary school.” You roll your eyes.

He pouts.

“You haven’t even told me what you’re doing next,” he says.

“That’s because I don’t really know,” you say.

“How can you get cast in a movie and not really know?”

Something about your legs slotting in between his

“I flipped through the script, it’s an action thriller, Christopher Nolan wrote it. I trust him with my life since we did Interstellar,” you say. “You said you’re gonna go home for a few months, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“I dunno, go home, relax,” he says. “Spend some time with the nieces and nephews. Walk dodger. Go to some pats games.”

“And watch your beloved Brady walk around with his MAGA hat.”

“We don’t talk about that,” he says.

“We don’t talk a lot of things,” you murmur. You’re not sure if Chris doesn’t hear you or doesn’t want to respond to what you’ve just said.

A few minutes of silence pass and your eyelids grow heavy, too tired to deal with your emotions.

“Y/N—,” Chris whispers, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Mhmm.”

“I—,” he pauses, and you wait with bated breath and the pregnant pause that follows is heady. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, meatball,” you answer back, nestling against his chest.

***

So, the _talk_ never happens, you flee to Croatia to film, with so many things unsaid. However, the two of you manage to keep a constant conversation flowing.

You discuss a litany of weird and wonderful topics; Robert Pattinson’s sparkle in real life

(he does), the fact Michael Caine is actually the coolest person alive, Chris sends you adorable videos of Dodger and his family and the fact you miss each other. You didn’t realise missing someone could feel like having a limb missing.

He calls you when Oscar nominations come out, practically screaming down the phone. You’ve both been nominated for Golden Globes, but only you’ve been nominated for an Oscar. Chris doesn’t even listen to you when you try to placate him. Instead, he’s too busy swearing and telling you how proud he is of you and that _you’ve got this._

You chat for a while, discussing who you’re bringing as dates. He says he’s going to bring his mom and your shoulders instantly slacken. There’s always a moment of silence in your calls - where you think one of you might crack - but it never happens. You wonder if it ever will.

***

Award season has all the negatives of movie premiers with the added stress of competition. You bite your nails for the entire Golden Globes ceremony. Butterflies don’t cut it — there’s a swarm of ravens in your belly. Having your brother at your side helps, but you’re not going to find peace until you know. You jump up and hug Chris as he wins Best Actor in a Motion Picture. You lose your category to Meryl Streep, which is fair enough.

Going to the Oscars is a little less nerve-wracking, you’ve tried to convince yourself that you’re going to lose. The first half of the evening goes by easily as you watch the other categories. But as the night draws to a close, you begin to fiddle with your fingers. Best Leading Actress is second to last, so it’s a long wait before you're put out of your misery.

As they’re announcing Best Leading Actor, Chris takes your hand. Matthew McConaughey strolls onto the stage and you think you might vomit. You school your breathing, taking a deep breath, knowing that the cameras already on you. Over the noise in your head, you can’t hear his preamble.

“Here are the nominees for an actress in a leading role…” You ignore the names as Matthew reads them out, focusing on keeping a straight face. _Don’t be disappointed when you lose, don’t be disappointed when you lose._

It’s a blur. You hear your name and you can’t move. Your hands fly over your mouth and you nearly trip over your dress as you try to stand up. Chris steadies you, giving you a hug as does your brother, your mom (who’s crying now) and Sean. From the front row, you make your way up onto the stage.

After getting a hug and well done from Matthew, you step up to the podium. “Um, this is so amazing. Thank you so much to the Academy for this incredible recognition. It takes a village to raise a child and I want to thank my family, my parents, my little brother, everyone on my block as a child. My teachers, the volunteers at our local youth theatre. To the other women nominated, I love you all. I, uhh, would love to mean girl’s this, split this up, because your talent is beyond words.”

You bumble your way through the rest of the acceptance speech; thanking your agent, your manager, your assistant, the film crew. You manage not to swear, despite the temptation. You probably spend more time looking at the statue, than you do the crowd.

“Umm, I have to thank two very special people. Your performance is as only as good as the material you have to work with. So thank you to our director, writer, producer, Sean Casey — there's method to your madness. And Chris Evans, oh my goodness, where do I begin? You’re the bestest friend ever. It wasn’t very hard pretending to be in love with you.”

“Umm, oh my goodness, this is the most stressed and happy I’ve ever been at the same time. I have one very special person to thank last but certainly not least — my high school drama teacher, Miss Ellis, you told my parents I had what it took to win an Oscar at a parent-teacher conference in the ninth grade. thanks for believing in me, before anyone else did. This one’s for you.”

The applause is deafening as you manage to walk off stage. Your feet carry you back to your seat. Your brother grabs onto the Oscar, admiring the golden statue from side to side.

You smile up at Chris, who despite his own loss, is grinning back at you.

“I knew you’d get it,” he mouths at you.

You shake your head, caught somewhere between a laugh and a cry. On cloud nine already, but you try to regain your focus for best picture to be announced. But you’re completely lost, until your cast, crew and everyone around you jumps up.

Your two producers give short speeches — both making a point to thank you and Chris for your hard work.

The next hour is a complete whirlwind because you’re whisked away to the press room to answer questions. You’re bombarded with wonderful, thoughtful questions that you can barely answer because your brain is short-circuiting.

It’s actually your agent who rescues you from your near stupor and manages to get you changed and off to the Vanity Fair after-party, promising that your family and the rest of the cast are already there. At the party, you’re inundated by a sea of people, congratulating you. Giddy and high off excitement, you end up on the dancefloor with a lot of your old friends and castmates.

The producers of the movie manage to wrangle you off the dancefloor, over to a table with the rest of the cast and your family. You scan the table and your heart drops, when you don’t see Chris. Your mother snatches the Oscar off of you, while Sean holds court, giving a thank you speech. He beckons Chris over, and _shit, shit, shit,_ your heart climbs into your throat.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, leaning down to your ear.

“I’ve been right here,” you reply, smoothing out the creases in your dress.

“Can we talk?” He tilts his head, gesturing towards the door, leading out to the smoking area. You follow him out to a quiet corner, away from the prying ears of reporters. Although, you can see a photographer aim his camera at you.

“Okay, let’s talk,” you say.

Chris opens his mouth, but then pauses. And _oh my god, this might just kill me._ With just enough liquid confidence and the buzz from winning, you decide to take matters into your own hands. “Chris, are you in love with me?”

Gobsmacked, he doesn’t answer, but you’re sick and tired of waiting. Tonight’s been a dream, and there’s no reason for you can’t go to the ball and sweep prince charming off his feet. You continue, “because, I think you’re in love with me. And I just announced to the entire world that I love you too.”

He blinks. “You stole my speech—.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” you say, pursing your lips.

Chris tucks his fingers beneath your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his blue ones.

“I’ve loved you for nearly a year,” he pulls away slightly, both hands move to cup your jaw and the back of your head, keeping you perfectly still. “But I waited because I didn’t want to make things weird while we were filming, and then I chickened out, and then I waited because you were in Croatia and I was in Boston, and now I’m sick of waiting.”

You giggle. “Was that the speech I ruined?”

He nods.

And with that, every ounce of sexual tension between the two of you unravels. You’re not sure who initiates the kiss. But you feel his soft, lips yield gently to yours, before you melt into one another. Your eyes flutter shut as your hands reach for him, pulling him closer. Chris’ hands slip down to your waist.

“Everyone just saw,” you say, pulling away. His hands are still holding on to you tight.

“I think this is what everyone has been talking about,” he says, using one hand to run a hand through his hair.

“You think?” You laugh, leaning into his side. Chris laughs too and you can feel the soft rumble of his chest as he presses a kiss to your temple.

***

**_Are Chris Evans and Y/F/N Y/L/N Endgame?_ **

After singling him out on her acceptance speech and saying, “it wasn’t very hard pretending to be in love with you,”, it’s becoming harder to believe that the pair are ‘just really close friends’.

And for those still in denial over Chris Evan’s relationship status, Evans and Y/F/N Y/L/N were engaged in some serious PDA at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party, before a rather public display of affection. Outside, in the smoker’s area, the couple were seen kissing and cuddling in a far corner. The pair left the party extremely early, hand in hand, Oscar Statue nowhere in sight.


	2. shaking from all this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically some pwp continuation of the last chapter!

****It’s like someone pulled on an elastic band, and this is the recoil. On the way back to Chris’ house (because it’s closer), you rest your head into the crook of his neck. At this point, you’re past talking. The feeling of his fingers skimming the inside of your thigh is enough conversation.

It’s a journey — paying for the taxi, getting into his house, making it into his bedroom. And, here it is. All the pining and anticipation culminate to here and now.

"Chris—,” you start, but you bite your lip as you pause. There’s a fleeting moment of embarrassment, but you shove it aside. Tilting your chin up, your eyes meet his. "Unzip my dress."

He doesn’t respond, but one of his hands settle on your shoulder. He uses the other to slowly unzip your dress and _you swear to god_ , you might actually die. Shivers rack down your spine. The dress drops and pools at your feet. Turning round, you immediately melt into Chris. Your hands wrap around his neck and you pull him close. As soon as your mouths collide, it as if you’ve been set on fire. Each moment that passes, Chris reduces you to a quivering mess; knees quaking, stomach flip-flopping, heart pounding.

His grip on your waist tightens. It isn't long before you’re stumbling, struggling to stay upright. It's only when you bump into the sofa and tumble back onto it that you actually manage to pull apart. You giggle, while Chris lets out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. He shifts, taking the brunt of your weight as you settle onto the couch.

“I think,” he breathes out, “that you’re brilliant.” His lips brush against the nape of your neck, immediately finding your sensitive spot. “And kind.” He sucks on the spot and you know there’s going to be a trail of hickies there in the morning. “And I fuckin' love you.”

It’s hard to think and feel so much at once.

“And I think you’re wearing a lot of clothing,” is all you can manage to get out.

He laughs. You wriggle to create more space between the two of you. With nimble fingers, you make quick work of his shirt. He sits upright, shucks it off and pulls you onto his lap. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight. How can anyone look at Chris and not _want?_

"I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anyone as much as I want you,” you confess with your hands splayed against his chest.

"Same," he says, before catching your mouth again. 

_Same, same, same._

Your eyes flutter shut as your hips roll against one another. There’s a boiling heat building up in the pit of your stomach as your hips continue to grind. Desperate, you pick up the pace as your fingers dig into Chris’ shoulder. And you’re completely overwhelmed, hyper-aware of Chris’ bodies beneath yours; the jutting lines of his pelvis, the slick skin of his back against your calves, his hard erection through his suit pants. 

“Get these off,” you pant, fingers already undoing his buckle. After a little resistance, you manage to pull his pants down.

“Bossy.” He nips at your ear. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Before you can say anything, Chris flips you on your back. His fingers hook round the rim of your underwear, snapping at the elastic. He starts with a kiss to each breast before his teeth close around your nipple and tug. You let out a strangled gasp, as Chris squeezes the other nipple between his fingers. The kisses migrate south to your hip bones, then to the inside of your thighs, until finally, he settles between your legs.

And, then, he doesn’t do anything. You can’t see his face, but you can feel the shit-eating grin against your thighs.

"Chris, seriously—.”

He chuckles and before you cuss him out, his tongue is on your clit. Your fingers rake through his hair. Then, he slips a finger inside you, and then another. It’s getting harder to breathe as his fingers hit that spot.

"C'mon, Y/N," he murmurs, pulling away for a second, but his fingers are still coaxing, crooked in that come-hither motion. The way his fingers glide inside you makes you tremble. Writhing against him, Chris places a firm hand on your hip, holding you down — which, honestly, is a good call, because right now you feel like you might float away,

You can't tell if it's his words, or the new angle of his fingers, but it sets you off. You grind against his jaw. Your orgasm strikes like lightning and your muscles disintegrate. Lying limp on the bed, you try to catch your breath.

Chris gently extricates himself from you, before migrating back up your body. His movements are deliberate, tantalizingly slow, as his index finger swirls around your abdomen, dipping into your navel before he settles his chin between your breasts. It’s like he’s trying to map you out.

“Ah, la petite mort,” he teases, repeating what he’d said to you at the premier all those months ago, before licking his fingers. He makes a show of it, licking each finger individually. _God, he’s even a meatball when you’re trying to have sex with him._

“You’re a menace,” you say.

He grins back at you, unfazed by your usual insults.

"This is cute and all, but can we please, _please_ have sex already?” You ask.

“Only because you said please.”

“Also, can I make a request?” you add.

Chris clambers off of you and it’s hard not to miss his weight. “Anything.”

The way he says, _anything._ Jesus, you feel like you could probably ask him for the moon and the scary thing is that he’d get it.

“You have a giant bed a few meters away, there’s no need for this to happen on a sofa,” you say.

Chris doesn’t miss a beat, scoops you up into his arms before throwing you onto his California king bed. 

“Your wish is my command,” he replies. Looking up at him, you can’t help but admire _what a fuckin’ dork he is_.

"Condom." He remembers, dashing to his bedside cabinet. He retrieves the foil packet from the drawer next to his bed. 

Getting up on your knees, you hook a hand round Chris’ neck and the other reaches between his legs. Your fingers wrap around his cock, giving it a few strokes. Chris moans and you keep up the slow, teasing pace. _Two can play at this game._ He thrusts into your hand, as he tears open the condom packet.

"Shit," he swears, as you pick up the pace. He pulses and jerks in your hand. You pinch the open packet out of his hand and with two hands slide it on.

“How do you want to do this? Because I had this grand plan for some tender and romantic moment,” he murmurs in your ear, “but…”

Your heart skips as his voice trails off

“Evans, you’re killing me here.” Your voice is hoarse from the endless kissing. You can feel your arousal, hot and sticky on your thighs. “What does a girl have to do around here to get fucked into a mattress?”

It’s all hands and mouths and limbs after that. Chris takes note, roughly pushing you down on the mattress, as per your request. He latches onto the back of your thighs, slipping between them, the head of his cock brushing against your clit. The anticipation is heady as he ruts against your slick entrance. You want more and you want it now _and and and and and.._.

Electric currents zap against your skin as he traps you into a deep kiss. Your fingers claw at his back, searching for something to anchor yourself to. Your hips lift off the bed, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he holds you down as he jerks himself. Your heart is racing so fast, it might just give out.

“Please,” you whine. “Please, please”

“God, you’re so good, so polite.” And with that, he buries himself in one swift thrust. He swallows your moans as your legs lock around his waist. Your back arches and your hips jolt up, chasing that elusive feeling. The force of his hips rocks the bed and robs you of your senses. The stretch is perfect, the pace of his thrusts is relentless. He's trapped you here, hovering at the edge, and _oh my god._

“Tell me you’ve thought about this,” Chris manages to get out as his hips roll into yours again and again. “Tell me you’ve thought about it as much as I have.”

His voice isn’t just gravel, it’s molten rock and you’ve never burned with so much desire.

You open your mouth, but all that escapes are more moans.

He repeats himself. “Tell me.” 

“I thought it might kill me,” you get out, gasping, “how much I wanted, want you.” 

You’re not sure if you’re making sense, but your answer satisfies Chris as he thrusts with new vigour. His eyes are fixed on you, his brows furrowed in concentration. You feel the impending crash and Chris knows it too, as he drops his forehead to your shoulder. He kisses at your collarbone, then sucks at the skin. Another hickey. 

“Are you gonna come, sweetheart?”

You nod, unable to find your voice, as you mewl and moan. The combination of Chris inside you as your walls pulse and flutter around him pushes you over the edge. Your entire body goes as taught as a bowstring. Every muscle contracts and spasms, before giving out. Chris lasts a few sloppy thrusts, before spilling inside the condom. 

He collapses next to you. And for a moment, neither of you speak, focusing on catching your breath, hauling oxygen back into your lungs.

“So... that was something,” he says after a minute passes. His body is slick with sweat, hot and sticky, but he pulls you into his arms. And you’re not any better, flushed with a rosy hue. 

“You’re gross.” you say, nestling against him. “Can we please do that again?” 

He laughs and you feel the vibrations from his chest.

“Later,” he promises.

**Author's Note:**

> While I've done a lot of weird personal writing for myself this year, but I haven't posted fic in over a year. 
> 
> Feedback is always treasured and it motivates me to post - otherwise fics die good deaths in my google docs!!
> 
> Reader inserts are always a struggle for me, I always end up creating OCs and want to name them - so lmk what you think? What do you prefer?
> 
> [find me on tumblr](http://fairytelling.tumblr.com)


End file.
